What we lost in fireworks, we gained in legend

August Santore Jr. of Garden State Fireworks held a press conference on July 5, 2012, to explain what caused the fireworks in the Big Bay Boom to go off all at once instead of as designed. — Howard Lipin

Yes 69% (519)

No 9% (71)

Duh 22% (167)

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The family fireworks business behind Wednesday’s Big Bay Boom bust launched itself in New Jersey in 1890 after an Italian teenager learned the trade by picking up unspent shells and piecing them together.

His great-grandson found himself cleaning up a much bigger mess Thursday, about 12 hours after one of the nation’s largest Fourth of July fireworks displays fizzled in spectacular fashion, errantly shooting off 7,000 fireworks in 30 seconds instead of the planned 16½ minutes.

August Santore Jr. of Garden State Fireworks faced a phalanx of reporters, apologized for an almost unbelievable computer malfunction and answered questions until he had to catch a plane.

“How are you going to make this up to the city?” came the first one.

His was a textbook apology. Profuse. Professional. He was glad no one got hurt and clearly felt awful. He said he and his wife cried Wednesday night.

A legion of San Diego politicians and personalities could learn from him.

What we lost in fireworks, we gained in legend, we gained in urban myth. A year from now, or a decade, the hundreds of thousands who saw this snafu will “increase” to 1 or even 2 million people.

If the show had gone off without a hitch, we’d have entered Thursday’s workaday grind talking about the Fourth of July food, something funny someone said or what gloomy weather we’ve all endured lately.

Fireworks are everywhere these days. They’re add-ons now, at sporting events and every single summer night at SeaWorld. When I was a kid in Massachusetts, we had to drive to the next town over to view Fourth of July fireworks. Wednesday, my family and I watched three shows from our balcony.

Honestly, how many of you remember the best fireworks show you’ve ever seen? Or the first? More likely, you’ve got a memory of your most recent. And I’d guess those memories are more about what you did before the show than during it, about the friends and family members whose necks craned next to yours.

Simply put, fireworks lose their luster between being a kid and having one.

Unless you’re a pyrotechnic team coordinator like Santore.

His family business put on 600 fireworks shows this year and 150 this week. It has put on the Big Bay Boom three years running.

“I literally was crying on the roof last year, I was so excited,” he said. “My wife and I were in tears watching the show, and I’ve seen 20,000 shows in my life, so for me to be moved like that ...”

Wednesday’s tears were different.

No, he said, the debacle that left hundreds of thousands of spectators unhappy, angry and/or confused wasn’t the most embarrassing moment in his life. And no, the 42-year-old wouldn’t say what was.

“It’s not a shining moment,” Santore said. “We’ve never lost in competition. We’ve beaten the best of the best, and each one of those times, I was carried off a field. People took my shirts off like a rock star and wanted to run away with them. I’ve lived the highs and this is a low, and believe me, all you can do is you get back up again and take everything you’ve always learned and you say, ‘What can I do better?’”

He added: “Is this a very public thing? Sure, it’s an extraordinarily public thing. Do I feel good about it? No. But you know what? I know how good we are, and I know how much pride we take in preparation.”

That preparation takes months, so for a do-over, Garden State Fireworks has offered to put on another, better show next Fourth of July for free.

I hope the Santores get their shot (7,000, actually) to light up the night sky next Fourth of July. And I hope we can’t stop talking about it.